Imagine bottling a sunset,
threading the hour into glass,
saving the last warm edge of day
for winter rooms.

Not a yield machine.
Not coins asleep for more coins.
A pledge. A vow with consequence.

Light works
revealing cracks we’d rather not see.

Light grows
leaf to sugar,
seed to hunger answered.

Light powers
muscle, music,
the current that lifts a tired hinge.

Light clarifies
the true edge of a path,
a face without guessing.

Focus it,
a lens against entropy,
gathering what would scatter
into a line that can cut through fog.

Save it,
a hope bank,
a bottled dawn for rooms where the spirit flags.

It means risk 
daylight lost to weather,
reputation to haste,
hours sown that never bloom.

But risk is the door light walks through.
Hold the match until your fingers warm,
light the room, and be responsible for its heat.

Stake your light to a purpose
a beacon that survives each new beginning,
a constellation of small suns held by many hands.

Then write your name again.
Not for credit.
For heat.